These Restless Hours
by pagerunner
Summary: The new management at Night Vale Community Radio is troubling Cecil's days and nights alike - and his nightmares. At least he's not waking up alone anymore. Set at some point after "Yellow Helicopters," but otherwise, no particular spoilers.


Cecil woke from the nightmare with his eyes burning from sunlight, and images of oily spit and sparking eyes still too vivid in his thoughts.

It was late, or early depending on your counting: nearly 3 a.m. going by the watch still on his wrist. He never took it off these days, no matter how much his new supervisors complained about his own stubborn definition of the time against all claims to the contrary. Daniel hated the watch. Well, the owner of the watch considered the feeling pretty mutual.

Particularly when Daniel's despicable face kept haunting him all night.

So Cecil sat on the edge of the bed and clutched one hand around his wrist, feeling the watch tick on in steady defiance, until Carlos stirred behind him and said fuzzily, "What is it?"

Cecil bowed his head. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Bad dreams again?"

Cecil swallowed. His eyes still stung, and his throat hurt. He wondered if he'd shouted there at the end. "Yes," he said, grudgingly, guiltily.

For a moment it was silent, and then the bed creaked underneath the motion of Carlos getting up.

Carlos was so careful with him in moods like this. Cecil felt another stab of regret, because he didn't mean to be difficult. But when Carlos scooted closer, he did it in particular stages, as if not to spook him. The first point of contact was just a hand on his arm where Cecil could see it, and high up, too, so that it rested on the fabric of Cecil's worn cotton t-shirt.

"Want to tell me about it?" Carlos ventured.

Cecil shook his head once, the motion nervously abrupt. "I don't want to keep _seeing _it."

"I get dreams like that sometimes," Carlos said quietly. "I can tell myself how to handle it rationally, but…"

"I used to do dream journals," Cecil said. "In accordance with official City Council rules and regulations. Sometimes it helped. But now-" His voice went bitter. "I don't trust that the wrong people won't dig them up and read them."

Carlos sighed. Cecil felt it against his neck. It went quiet again then, and Cecil let himself be tugged closer.

"Could you tell me about your dreams?" he asked Carlos after a minute. "I mean…well, it doesn't have to be about yours, if you don't want…but…what does science tell you about them?"

The answering silence was thoughtful. Cecil looked down in time to see Carlos' hand slip down and wrap around his own, gently pulling it away from the watch. For a second Cecil trembled, oddly nervous, but Carlos' fingers twined between his own, and _that _was certainly all right.

"There's…a lot of theories. The basic neurobiology is relatively well understood, but the _purpose…_no one's settled that, not for centuries." Cecil watched as Carlos' thumb gently rubbed over his hand. "Some think it's to do with memory sorting, some think it's threat simulation…"

Cecil pictured that face again and shuddered. "But what's the use if you can't make yourself _do _anything?"

Carlos squeezed his hand. "I don't know," he said softly.

"Some people put great stock in prophetic dreams," Cecil said, more hesitantly. "I've never experienced it, not for much of significance anyway, but-"

"Those have never been scientifically proven, either. If that helps."

It didn't, much. Cecil held his tongue. The moment stretched out. "It was about Daniel," he said at last.

Carlos leaned close, his forehead against Cecil's shoulder, then backed up enough to turn him around. Cecil watched him. His eyes, readjusted to the dark, picked out every detail in the comfortable, faint light.

"He's not here," Carlos reminded him. "Strex can't hear you. This space is safe."

Cecil glared slantwise at the listening device tucked into the bedside lamp. Someday, someone was going to get on his case about how it kept getting muffled and broken, because _really, Mr. Palmer, who puts chewing gum on their lamps at night…? _

He imagined Daniel asking it. Imagined the sun-bright pin glinting on his lapel, and something mechanical and grim behind the smile. Cecil felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. "No. He's not here."

Carlos nodded, then tugged gently at his hand. Cecil followed. Soon enough he was lying beside Carlos again, his head resting on Carlos' bare chest, and he bit his lip, trying to relax. "Talk to me," he said after a moment.

"About what?"

"Anything." He nestled in a little closer. "I love your voice."

Carlos chuckled, almost ruefully, but it felt wonderful. This time it was Cecil's turn to ask, "What?"

"It just gets to me, still," he said, sounding almost shy. "I'm in bed with the Voice of Night Vale…and he wants to listen to me."

Cecil wondered sometimes how much that title counted for these days. _But you're still trying, _he reminded himself. _You're still getting as much out as you can. _And in any case, Carlos probably meant that more simply - and certainly more personally. So he moved his head just enough to give Carlos a sideways smile, letting his voice go deep. "Take the compliment."

Carlos laughed again, giving his own pleased little shiver. "All right then. Um." He took a deep breath. "I could tell you about my day. Since we didn't get much chance to talk. I don't know how exciting it would be, but…"

"That's all right."

Carlos idly stroked his shoulder. "Well, there's work. We're making progress on our analysis of the house that doesn't exist. We've been getting much better views of the interior. Observed from outside, of course. I also got a letter this afternoon…"

Cecil hummed in acknowledgment and encouragement, even though soon he was listening more just to the tone of Carlos' voice. It was soft and even, reassuring, and his heartbeat blended with the quiet tick of the watch until everything became one lulling rhythm. Cecil's eyes drifted shut.

"And then, here, tonight…I was dreaming, too," Carlos said at the end, almost out of the range of his conscious hearing. "You were there."

Cecil felt a prick of curiosity, but he didn't say anything, didn't move just yet.

"I was lost," Carlos admitted. "I think…I'm still not completely sure where I was, but I think I'd gone through the door of the house. I knew I shouldn't have, but you know dreams. It happened. I needed a direction. And I heard you. I followed you out."

Cecil, briefly picturing endless hallways of his own, yellow-painted, far too bright and too far away from this, stretched out one hand until it reached Carlos' again. Carlos clasped it, and his voice went softer.

"I always hear you," he said.

Cecil, his heart making a strange little skip, squeezed his hand this time.

He held on, too, until Carlos settled in again, reassured enough by Cecil's gesture. Cecil mostly shared the reassurance. His thoughts were slowly turning again, though, because what Carlos had said deserved a reply. It deserved better than _words_, in fact. He was just too tired now to do it justice.

_You'll sleep sound this time, _Cecil told himself, while Carlos yawned into his ear. _You both will. And he'll be there when you wake up again. _

In the end, it was enough comfort to go out on. But he still wished, in a small, worn corner of his mind - the one still picturing sunbursts and eerily smiling faces - that it didn't have to be sunrise to test the theory.


End file.
